Handbook for Brave Ladies
by GataFairy
Summary: A visit from Effie's mother sends Effie and Haymitch to see Effie's family in the Capitol, where they learn how the transition from being a comfortable place of power to being the seat of the new republic is affecting its old and new denizens.
1. What Scares the Strong

**Acknowledgements:** S, who read this first in spite of her workload. Thank you for believing in me always. My muse, who has violated our agreement to let me endure the semester without words (but because you keep me sane, I forgive you).

**Notes:** This takes place after _As the Sky_, but it is NOT necessary to have read it to get this. **To catch you up if you haven't read AtS,** the gist is that Effie and a TV crew went to District Twelve to film a documentary on its recovery, it was a success, and thereafter, Effie stayed with Haymitch. **Furthermore,** because I'm busy (and often very tired), updates will be few and far between at best, for which I apologize deeply (and will probably continue apologizing every update). **That said,** I hope you enjoy this! Feedback is always appreciated, especially if you have suggestions on how I can improve. :D

* * *

Early in the morning, Effie heads down the stairs of Haymitch's house in Victors Village, hiding a yawn behind her hand. The sun has only just begun to peek out over the horizon, painting the tops of the trees and houses a pale gold. The light filtering in through the curtains and windows is not yet enough to light the house's interior, but Effie makes the walk to the kitchen in the shadows, the prospect of greeting the morning bringing a small smile to her face.

She doesn't bother with the lights, goes instead to start some water boiling and sit at the counter to stare out the window at the waking world. It's mid fall, but there has been a warm spell for the past day or two, and they have been keeping a few windows open to help cool the house. This morning, it is chilly, just the way Effie likes it. She tugs her robe tight about her and listens for the geese, for the larks and wrens, their familiar songs the only sounds to allay the dread that is twisting her stomach into knots.

"It's silly," she had told Haymitch the day before. "After everything that's happened, that something as simple as this scares me so much is—well, it's silly."

Haymitch had shrugged and said, "For what it's worth, I'm damn near terrified."

"You aren't even the one who has to face this," she had said, shaking her head. "I don't know what I'll do."

"You'll deal with it," he had stated, as if it were the simplest and best advice in the world. "It'll be fine. It's like you said, you've dealt with far worse. You can do this."

As she listens to the birdsong starting in earnest outside, Effie hopes that he's right.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs draws her from her thoughts; within moments, Haymitch shuffles into the kitchen, heading for the stove.

"I'll get it," she says, standing. "You're not awake enough to make coffee. You'll spill it everywhere."

He gets the tin of ground coffee out of the cupboards anyway, surprisingly coordinated for someone who looks as though he could sleep for another five hours.

"Consider it my gift to you," he tells her, reaching for their usual mugs. "You know, in solidarity."

Effie shakes her head, smiling, and goes to help him. "I appreciate it." She spares a moment to brush some hair out of his eyes, then gets the sugar and some spoons. Between the two of them, they're done within minutes, going to sit at the table with their steaming mugs. Effie grips hers tightly, afraid to drop it as she remembers today's task, and shudders, the strength draining from her momentarily.

"You look paler than normal," Haymitch remarks.

"It's just nerves," she says, shrugging. She takes a sip of coffee, but he is too perceptive despite his grogginess, and he sees the quick, tight grin she gives in the second before her mug touches her lips. She feels his eyes on her, sees him, out of the corner of her eye, frowning as he watches her.

"You're really that upset?" he half asks, half states. When she shrugs again, he says, "It's just your mother, Eff."

"You don't know her," she says at once. "All that I used to be—the timetables, the proper behavior, the sense of fashion—_don't laugh!_—I learned all of that from her. And she's always been more of all of that than I have been. Which reminds me: I don't know what to wear!"

"Didn't you pick something out a few days ago?" His reaches for the long sleeve of her robe, lifting it at the end as if it will reveal another article of clothing underneath. "Red? Orange? Something garish."

"_Vermilion_," she corrects, pulling her arm back. "But I don't know anymore. It's a good color for the fall, but—" For a moment, she lets the sentence hang, mentally going through her wardrobe. It is smaller than it used to be, and more subdued as well, but still colorful, still her. The vermilion dress she had settled on has puffy sleeves and layered skirts, but it had felt more and more wrong the more she looked at it. She had left it ready to put on today, but she has been unconvinced of her choice since at least the night before.

Sighing, she sets her mug down on the table. "And that's _without_ thinking about what to do with my hair. Which color wig? Or maybe I should go with a scarf?"

"Just wear your real hair out."

She gasps, nearly knocking over her mug in her haste to bring a hand to her heart. "Are you _serious_?"

"Yes." He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee, completely unaware of the audacity of his suggestion.

"I can't do that," she huffs, placing her hands one over the other on the table. Does he not understand, after all this time, that her hair is the one part of herself she has kept absolutely sacred for as long as she has been able? Growing it back since the rebellion has only made it more so, and even moving here for good hasn't changed that. Aside from Katniss seeing it on the morning she went to talk Effie out from within the shadows of a vivid nightmare, she has only allowed Haymitch to see her head uncovered, and she has not even considered making another exception for anyone.

"Why not?" he asks. "She's your mother. It's not like she hasn't seen it before."

"She hasn't seen it in… goodness, ten, fifteen years? I can't even remember the last time."

"So she's long overdue a look at it, isn't she?"

"That isn't the point." She presses her lips together, frowning at her mug, as if in it she'll find the words for what she cannot express. "It's as if… Well, you don't walk out into the world showing everyone your scars, do you?"

"That's because normal clothes cover them."

"But if they didn't, you still wouldn't, would you? You wouldn't just go outside naked."

"No," he says, "and fuck anyone who'd think of nudity as a fashion statement."

"Exactly." She sighs. "Obviously it isn't the same. Going out without covering my hair doesn't constitute nudity, but—" Frowning, she meets his gaze, the steadiness of his stare a comfort she cannot, in this moment, be without. "I was taught growing up that a person's worth was measured by how they could afford to dress. A person's body was a canvas, and we were all walking works of art as long as we were on trend. Being in any way natural was unthinkable. It was base. Ugly." The last word comes out in a whisper, the old stigma suddenly fresh in her mind. As she is right now, with her hair tied back and no make-up on her face, she is hideous by the standards which ruled her old life. Sometimes when she looks in the mirror in the morning, she is back in that world, and she wants to cover her face thrice over with make-up and wear the brightest wig she owns. Without those things, she isn't worth half a glance.

"My mother taught me how to make myself beautiful," she says softly. "I don't want to disappoint her."

Sighing, Haymitch sets down his mug. "Somehow, I don't think she'll be that upset with you if you aren't covered with glitter. I think she's plenty happy with the fact that you're alive."

"That's not good enough." She shuts her eyes. "It's been well over a year now."

"Why do you think she's even coming here?"

"I'm sorry?"

He holds her gaze for a moment when she looks at him again, then repeats slowly, "Why do you think she's even coming here?"

"To check up on me," Effie answers, frowning.

"To see you," he adds, nodding. "To see how you are."

"Yes." She waits a moment, but he merely nods. "I'm afraid I'm missing your point."

"She's coming _here_, to the district you and everyone else thought was so miserable. She's putting aside what she believes about this place, all because she wants to see you. She could've asked you to go visit her, but she didn't. _She's_ making the trip. _She's_ facing whatever fears she has about Twelve."

He arches his eyebrows, staring straight at her, and as his words hit their mark, she gazes down at her hands.

When she had spoken with her mother on the phone last week, Effie had been too busy processing the news of her visit to even begin to understand the why of it, and she had forsaken reason, thinking instead of how it used to be. In those days, her mother would not have let Effie get away so easily with smearing the family name thus, and the visit would have been to offer her prodigal daughter one last chance to come home and rectify her mistakes. She could not force Effie to do things now, nor could she have then, but the reproach would still have been delivered, the shame shifted fully onto Effie's shoulders to bear for the rest of her life and perhaps after, if her transgression became cautionary tale. Effie had regressed since that phone call, becoming defensive when the topic came up, spending more time in the bathroom every morning and enumerating the long list of her imperfections, classifying in her mind the additions to them from her time in captivity.

Old habits crept up so easily when something potentially threatening appeared.

"That's very sensible," she says, but she isn't yet sure she believes it. She has never known anyone from her old home to be so willing to understand an outside point of view.

"Do what you want," he tells her, leaning back in his chair. "Don't wear that _vermilion_ dress, though. It's ugly."

"You say that about all my dresses," she says, a hushed chuckle taking with it some of the tension in her frame. There is a lightness in the air now, and as the morning light brightens the kitchen, he rests his hand upon her forearm, she begins to feel brave.

* * *

Some three hours later, the passenger train makes its stop at Twelve, and Mitrodora Trinket calls from the station to announce her arrival.

"Give me half an hour, my dear, then come meet me at the town square," she says, her voice lilting and warping with the accent of the Capitol's upper classes.

Effie imitates it unconsciously, her former speech patterns coming to her with surprising ease. "Yes, of course. I'll see you shortly."

When Effie hangs up, Haymitch grimaces at her from where he is scrubbing away at the frying pan.

She heads for the bathroom without a word, avoiding meeting her own gaze as she brushes on a thin layer of eye shadow. After an hour of agonizing over what to wear, she had settled on a compromise: one of the subtler dresses she owns in a style she has come to love since relocating, enough make-up to cover the scars on her face without giving her skin the appearance of hard, unfeeling porcelain, and a wig of pale pink, an old favorite that her mother had given her years ago.

Downstairs, she hesitates a moment by the door, and Haymitch takes the opportunity to place a flower, a dahlia from the vase she keeps on the coffee table, in her wig.

"Thank you," she breathes.

"Relax," he says. "It's just a short visit. It'll be over before you know it."

"I'm being ridiculous." She inhales deeply and stands to her full height. "If I'm not back by sunset, go look for me."

"I'll be sure to do that," he says, rolling his eyes.

She smiles, touches his arm, and heads outside.

A hint of last night's chill hangs in the air, but a few seconds in the sun warm Effie's skin even through the long sleeves of her light green dress. She's wearing her favorite pair of boots, brown ones commissioned from Marsh, the shoemaker. Effie works far less now than a year ago, but she makes enough to afford new clothes and accessories. She buys most of her things in town, but sometimes she will treat herself to imports, mostly finer gowns and fabrics from Eight. A few months ago, she had asked Marsh if he could make a pair of boots with a few inches to their heels, and since he'd completed them, she had been in bliss.

They may not be in style, but perhaps they will impress solely because she loves them so.

She spots her mother from afar, a particularly bright spot amid the colors of the new town square. Twelve has blossomed in the arms of its newfound freedom, its residents finding happiness in the little things that Effie and her people had taken for granted for generations. But even against the backdrop of a cheerful basket of flowers atop a decorative pillar, her mother's orange and violet outfit stands out. Pursing her lips, Effie approaches her, making bets with herself as to how long it will take for her mother to identify her amid the bustling crowd of a work day at mid-morning.

It turns out to be not long at all. As soon as Effie enters the square proper, her mother waves her over, and after double kiss on each cheek, they sit on a nearby bench, just under the shade of a young oak.

"I'm staying at such a lovely place," says Mitrodora. "It's small, but clean. Tastefully decorated, too. Overall, I would say it's absolutely charming!"

"I'm glad you think so," says Effie.

"I would have come earlier, but do you know that they are booked for weeks in advance? And it's such a small place!" Mitrodora shrugs. "You've done them a world of good, dearest."

Effie shrugs, giving a half-hearted smile. "I wonder about that sometimes." The steady influx of visitors has been good for local business owners, but the fawning of her former compatriots has been off-putting. She has heard about it from the inn's manager, who opens her dining room to the residents of Victors Village when they come by with special baked goods. It's a small, cozy space, and now Peeta's baked goods are rationed out to ensure everyone gets to enjoy at least one pastry. As the manager watches people pass and the supply of pastries dwindle, she shares, under her breath, complaints about some of the more irritating visitors.

"Thanks to _you_," she says sometimes, staring right at Effie. Then she laughs and pats Effie's shoulder. "Business is good."

"There's a doctor from District Two in the room next to me," Mitrodora continues. "He's a gem of a man, so thoughtful. I was happy to see you'll have someone to go to should something ever happen."

"Yes."

"I'm so glad to see you kept that wig, darling. It was always one of my favorites."

"Oh—yes," Effie says, smiling. She had forgotten how quickly her mother could jump from one topic to the next; smiling is the only way she can think of to excuse herself for not keeping up. "Of course I kept it. It's one of my favorites as well."

Mitrodora nods, glancing down at Effie's shoes, doubtless evaluating the whole of her daughter's outfit. Effie digs her nails into her palms, fighting the impulse to turn away. When the silence becomes too long to bear, she asks, "How long will you be staying?"

"I'm not certain yet," her mother replies. "I haven't purchased my return ticket." She pauses a moment, then adds, "I was hoping I would buy two of them and you would come with me."

"Mother—" Effie presses her lips together, pressing her nails deeper into her palms. "I live here now."

"Ah, that you do. Yes, indeed." Mitrodora nods. "May I assume we'll be planning a wedding soon?"

"_Mother_," Effie gasps, frowning. "I—"

"Forgive me my forwardness," Mitrodora continues. "It's just that we expected you and Seneca Crane to marry, you know, and we were so excited. But then he—well, I needn't remind you."

Yet she has done just that, and the memories of those days tear through Effie's heart anew. Her chest burns. Tears sting her eyes. She takes a deep, slow breath, counting to ten from start to finish. Her mother does not know the truth about Seneca's death. Few do, for in the face of countless crimes against the people of Panem, the execution of an accomplice to those transgressions is but a minor detail. Heavensbee would probably die for a story on that, but Effie has walked away from television work for a long, long while.

"Now you have the victor."

"Haymitch," Effie says at once. "His name is Haymitch."

"Haymitch Abernathy. Who could ever forget?" Mitrodora looks up and smiles, staring at a storefront across the square. "Who would have thought? My daughter, charming men held in such esteem."

She means it as praise, but Effie winces regardless. It's too much old Capitol, too real, too immediate. "That was never how I intended it," she says. "It's just how it happened."

Nodding, Mitrodora sighs. "I only want to see you happy, Effie."

"That's—"

"And I wanted you to know what it's like to have a family of your own. Your brother gave me grandchildren, but it would be different if—"

"I can't." Effie lowers her gaze and frowns. "Forgive me. I don't mean to be rude by interrupting you, but—" She inhales deeply, meeting her mother's gaze, her guard down for the second it takes to repeat her confession. "I can't.

Again Mitrodora nods. The simple gesture renders her older than she looks, doing away, for just a moment, with what cosmetic surgery and make-up have sought to hide for years now. In only one year since the rebirth of their nation, time has taken a heavy toll on them all.

"I am trying to understand," Mitrodora admits. "It's difficult, mind you. There is so much to process. But I am trying very hard because I think you have been made to endure enough."

Effie bites the insides of her cheeks as she nods, counting through a breath.

"But please also understand that we miss you very much," her mother continues, a hint of desperation making her voice tremble before she quietly clears her throat.

"I know."

"Please consider a visit now and again, for a day or two."

"I will."

"Don't feel obligated, but please consider it."

Nodding, Effie repeats, "I will." The promise binds her spirit, and she will never be able to undo it.

* * *

Haymitch is waiting for her in the kitchen, a mug set out for her on the table, next to a glass with his choice of liquor for the day. When she sees him, she stops by the table, and when it becomes clear that she does not intend to move, he stands and goes to her.

Wordlessly, Effie slides her arms about his waist and rests her head on his chest. In response, he holds her close, gentle despite the tension in his frame. They are used to this now, these silent exchanges that promise safety and comfort, banishing one another's ghosts even if only for a while.

"That bad?" he asks after some time.

She tightens her hold on his shirt. It's too soon, and she has not yet processed her thoughts well enough to form words. Shifting, she lifts a hand to her head and says, "Help me take this off."

By now he is as fast as she is at this, his nimble fingers finding and removing pins and wig and cap with care. She sets the wig on the table, adjusting the dahlia in its pale pink curls as Haymitch smoothes her hair into place.

Breathing shakily, she glances at the table and sees the glass and the mug as if for the first time since arriving.

"You made me tea," she says, meeting his gaze.

"Have to boil the water, actually," he clarifies, "but I started to. Didn't know when you'd be back, but I figured you might want some when you did."

She nods, manages a small smile. "You are absolutely right."

As he goes to turn on the stove, Effie sits and stares at the liquor in his glass. Just a sip might help her get words out, even if they are a mess. The conversation with her mother is fresh in her mind, the words clear, the impressions heavy. She sees her mother's outfit when she closes her eyes, the oranges and yellows too bright, an artificial autumn that Effie would once have found delightful. Still, compared to how they had both dressed little over a year ago, Mitrodora had chosen subtlety over expression, and beside her, Effie had been dull and boring save, perhaps, for her wig.

As the water starts to boil, she runs her fingers through her hair, relishing the feel of it and how it has grown in the past year. It isn't beautiful, despite what Haymitch may say to her, but it's hers, and she wouldn't trade it for even half the comforts of her old life.

Haymitch pours boiling water into Effie's mug, sets the pot in the sink to cool, and takes his seat again. He picks up his glass and drinks.

Effie watches him through the steam rising from her mug.

"She wants me to go back with her."

He snorts, arching his eyebrows as he sets his glass down and reaches for the bottle at the center of the table. For a moment, she thinks he's going to drink right from it, but all he does is fill his glass almost to the brim. "Some request," he says and takes a drink.

She nods, pressing her lips together as she clasps her hands tight in front of her. The only sounds in the room for those few, long seconds are the ice in his glass and the glass on the table when he sets it down again. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, but she doesn't count it – surely he can't hear that.

She takes her mug, the ceramic hot against her skin, and sips, burning her tongue. She winces, feels his gaze on her, but does not put the mug down.

"What did you say to her?" he asks.

"That I would consider it."

"Really," he scoffs. "That's not something to say so lightly."

"No." She blows into her mug, sipping more slowly this time. The tea is still very hot, but she suffers no additional burns.

He holds up his glass, staring at it as if admiring precious stones. Finally, he asks, "So what will you do?"

Inhaling deeply, she sets down her mug. It is the question she has asked herself since her mother had brought up returning in the square, the one that had rendered her speechless upon seeing Haymitch sitting here waiting for her, ready to listen to the story of how many horrors this simple visit brought up against her will. She cannot dawdle any longer.

Meeting his gaze, she gathers her thoughts together and listens to the silence they leave in their wake.

"I'm going to go."


	2. Foundation for a Journey

Haymitch opens his mouth to speak, but Effie cuts him off, the weight of her admission hitting her a second too late.

"Only for a visit."

Arching his eyebrows, he nods. "That's different, then."

"Yes. I have no intention of returning for longer than a few days." Even that is enough to summon ghosts that drag their cold fingers over her skin. She flinches, wraps her hands fully around her mug, preferring the immediacy of the heated ceramic to the haunted places that are everywhere and nowhere at once.

"When are you going?"

She shrugs. "My mother wants to go back in a day or two, so I'll have to see." Sighing, she lifts her mug. "My brother's wedding anniversary is in a few days. I suppose I could stay for about a week and see everyone."

Through the steam rising from her tea, she sees Haymitch nod, his eyes unfocused.

She purses her lips and rolls her eyes, waiting a bit longer for him to speak up. When he doesn't, she takes a long drink of tea, the heat of it warming her in the cooler indoor air. Tonight, the weather will start to change, the temperature beginning its gradual descent into what will surely be a frigid winter.

"She asked about you, by the way," she says once she is a third of the way through her tea.

"Your mother?"

Effie nods. "She wants to meet you."

He laughs, sardonic, the sound short-lived.

"I thought as much." Sighing, she shakes her head. "I'll tell her later that you aren't up for it."

"Whoa there, I didn't say that."

Frowning, she fixes a stare on him. "You mean you would want to speak with her?"

He shrugs. "Why not?"

"Well— well, for one thing, she still refers to you as 'the victor.' And—" She presses her lips together as she looks about the room, but the countertops and cabinets hold no answers for her, mocking her with stillness in the face of her subdued distress.

"You don't want me to talk to her," he says, a corner of his mouth pulling back in the beginnings of a sly grin.

"I'm just surprised," she finishes finally, setting down her mug with a huff. "You never struck me as the type to socialize of your own volition."

"And you never struck me as shy."

"I'm not!" She pauses and takes a slow, deep breath, then says more calmly, "As I said, I'm simply surprised that you would show interest in meeting my mother, of all people." Really, there are far more interesting people she could think he would want to meet, like Cleopatra Flickerman, who possesses her father's charisma and an unwavering devotion to helping her people transition into the new system of government. Wouldn't he want to ask her how she was able to so quickly change?

"Why are you so opposed to the idea, though?"

He isn't smirking when she looks at him this time, isn't laughing with his eyes or baiting her. By now, she is fluent in the language of his stare, the nuances that dance in the grey of his irises, sometimes like rain clouds, sometimes like steel. What she sees now is the grey of a gentle rain in midsummer, the kind that nurtures the evening primrose bushes outside Katniss' house and cools the humid air.

"Why do you want to speak with her so badly?" she challenges.

He shakes his head. "I asked first."

Sighing, she looks down at her tea again. "Because it would mean so many things to me." She peeks at him from beneath her eyelashes, watches his slow, deliberate nod.

He lifts his glass and leans back in his seat. "Because," he says, meeting her gaze, "if you turned out not to be so bad despite it all, she must've done something right with you. That means that maybe she's not so bad herself."

"She isn't," she protests as she straightens. Drawing in a breath, she adds, "Most of us aren't—weren't. I know that's probably still difficult to believe coming from me, but it's true. At least, that's how I see it." It's how she has had to see it since the rebels sprung her from the Capitol's prison, since she walked into the light for the first time after those terrible months. The people in the street still dressed the way they used to, but she could see past the make-up and wigs and clothes and surgical alterations. They clung to their past so they could keep walking forward, because if they fell to pieces, there would be no putting themselves back together.

Besides, sometimes evil looks like the people it wants to destroy.

Several months ago, Effie had gone with Katniss to the spot in the old fence where Katniss had found freedom.

"I don't really want to go hunting today," Katniss had said as she helped Effie to the other side. "But I want to be out here for a while."

"It's beautiful," Effie remarked, and she meant it. A far cry from the tall buildings and sleek, synthetic structures she had grown up with, everything out in the woods felt alive, even in the silence that surrounded them.

"I thought you might like it."

They went as far as the first hill, Effie's endurance nowhere near as good as Katniss'.

"Feel free to go on without me," Effie had said. "I can find my way back if you'd like to spend the rest of the afternoon alone."

Chuckling, Katniss rolls her eyes. "If I'd wanted that, I would've left without you."

They had taken their lunch then, rolls and cheese and slices of meat from town. Now and again when a particular bird would sing, Katniss identified it.

After the third bird, Effie asked, "Are there any mockingjays around here?"

Katniss nodded, pointing off into the distance, away from District Twelve. "There are a lot of them over there."

Katniss went silent then, like Haymitch did when he remembered things that were neither painful nor pleasant. Effie tried to imagine the place where the mockingjays congregated and sang their songs. It brought back, against her will, thoughts of Katniss singing to the little girl from Eleven who had been her ally in her first Games, and of the symbol of the rebellion: Katniss, the Mockingjay, Panem's unintentional liberator.

"Why did you shoot Coin?"

Katniss tensed, but Effie did not retract her question. That day, her perfect schedule had been disrupted by her very best charge ever, and there must have been an excellent reason for it.

"Because she wasn't above killing children herself," Katniss said after a pause that felt hours long. "Snow was going to die anyway, and soon. But Coin…" She shrugged. "If she had become president, I don't think things would have changed very much. It would have just been the rest of us ganging up on you and yours."

Effie dug her nails into her palms, the possibility too immediate and real despite the fact that all that was left of Coin now were her bones.

"Do you think I shouldn't have?"

Effie shook her head. "I think you did what needed to be done. I think you've always known better than all of us, instinctively, that the right thing is sometimes difficult to accept, let alone do."

Katniss scoffed. "You're making me sound more heroic than I was. I was mad at her when I shot her. I hated her."

"Real heroes aren't sinless saints, Katniss," Effie said, and as she took a breath, she smiled sadly. "And sometimes, even villains have some good in them."

Katniss snorted but did not protest, leaving Effie to her memories.

Even now, when she would like to cite examples to defend her point, Effie bites her tongue. They do not discuss the past, much less the dead, much less those ghosts who Effie once called friends, fellow employees of the cruel villains of the story that the rebels brought to an end. But in the context of her family and their friends, people whose lives had not revolved around the carnage of the Games the way hers had, her assessment remains true, her bias unchanged. She would be a hypocrite if she showed them no sympathy when she has been welcomed into the lives of those she hurt the most.

"So when did she want to talk to me?"

Effie smiles as she comes out from within her thoughts, because for the first time in so long, the present gives her hope.

"In a few hours," she says, standing. "I'll arrange it now."

* * *

"Now, remember, be polite. If you eat anything, don't speak with your mouth full, and _never_—"

"Yeah, I know, thanks," Haymitch says, straightening his tie.

Effie presses her lips together and crosses her arms. "She hates being interrupted."

"So that's where you get it from."

She holds back a retort, his brand of jesting not forgotten to her. Too many arguments in their former life had begun over matters of manners. The truth is that he does know, and she does trust him.

"I built a career around this," she had said to him several months ago, as they were getting ready for that year's midsummer festival. "It's habit now."

So even though no one's life depends on his appearance and performance, she looks him over for even the most miniscule imperfection. So far, she has found and snipped a few loose strings, ironed out a wrinkle, and agonized over the state of his beard.

"I still think you should shave," she remarks, holding back a smile when he fixes his shirt sleeve.

"Can't," he tells her. "She won't recognize me without this." He inspects his stubble, his act the perfect pantomime of a Capitol man.

Effie averts her gaze.

"Anything else you want to pick at?"

"No," she says, eyeing his shoes for scratches or stains. "You look respectable." She pauses for a smile. "I'm proud. You really have learned."

"One year with you will do that to anyone."

Rolling her eyes, she grins. "I hope you aren't quite so charming when you speak to her."

"Even more than I am right now." He takes a step back and turns to face her. "This is your last chance to fix anything before I'm out the door."

Tapping her chin with her forefinger, she walks in a slow circle around him. She had made her decision a few minutes ago, but she can certainly pretend to perform an inspection. He knows it, too, and it shows in the slight tilt to his head and the way his weight is shifted to one side.

Coming up to stand in front of him, she frowns and reaches for his tie. It's fine as he has done it, but she fusses with it until it is textbook perfect and camera ready. When she's finished, she pats it, nodding her approval.

"Be nice to her," she whispers, meeting his gaze.

"You say it like I'm incapable of that."

She shakes her head. "I just—" His frown makes her pause, and his half smirk brings a smile to her face. "It's nothing. It's like before. I was nervous for nothing. Everything will be fine."

He nods, pats her shoulder, and heads for the door.

At the window, she watches him go, wrapping her arms about herself to banish the chill that had drifted inside in the few moments it took Haymitch to shut the door. The whole house feels cold now, even when she stands by the stove to watch the water boil. The tea helps, but when the sky begins to grow dark, the silence, more than the chilly air, drives her to pull on a fitted jacket, wrap her head in a warm scarf, and head a few houses down.

Katniss' kitchen door is unlocked, but Effie knocks anyway, announcing her presence before letting herself inside. A year of being neighbors has allowed them all to become used to one another's comings and goings, the sound of their footsteps, and the need for company that pierces through them from time to time.

The rich smell of early winter squash greets her first, followed quickly by Peeta, who is seated on a stool by the stove.

"It's so lovely in here," she says as she goes to stand beside him.

"Did the smell of the soup carry all the way over to your place?"

"Oh, no! I didn't mean it like that," she tells him, lifting a hand to her heart. "Mostly I meant it about the warmth. We haven't yet turned the furnace on. I think I'll have Haymitch do that when he gets back."

He smiles, picking up the wooden spoon by the stove. "Where did he head off to?"

"Town," she says. "He's on a special errand, sort of."

"Sort of?" Peeta repeats, stirring the soup. He lifts the spoon, drips some of it onto the back of his hand, and has a taste. "I hope it involves buying spices. I could really use a pinch of sage."

"Unfortunately, he probably won't have the foresight," she laments with a grin.

She declines the offer of a taste of soup, her stomach not yet recovered from the knots it had tied itself into earlier in the day. He frowns at her, a slight crease of his brow, but he does not the press the matter further.

Before the silence becomes uncomfortable, she clears her throat and says, "I'll be leaving for the Capitol in a few days."

"Really?" he asks, and he quickly shakes his head as if he regrets his quick response.

Effie, of course, lets it pass. "My brother's wedding anniversary is soon. And my mother told me just today that it would be nice for me to visit."

He gives a small smile, and she remembers too late that his family was not as fortunate as hers. She bites her lips to physically halt herself making it worse.

"Will it be a long trip?" he asks, lowering the fire on the stove.

"Oh, no," she answers. "Not at all. Only a week at most. I couldn't stand to be away from you all for longer than that!"

"And the food, right?"

They laugh together just as Katniss comes inside with a bag full of the day's spoils.

"You joining us for dinner?" asks Katniss as she sets the bag on the far side of the sink. She would come off antagonistic if not for the slight smile playing on her lips.

"You two are just terrible, assuming that's the only thing that would bring me here," Effie says, shaking her head. "Here I am, missing you both already, and you are all but driving me out."

"Missing us?"

"She's going to visit her family in a few days."

"Oh." Katniss turns the bag upside down, emptying its contents into the sink. From where Effie is standing, it looks to be mostly roots and berries. "For how long?"

"Not more than a week," Effie answers as Katniss begins to rinse the berries.

"Well, I hope you have a good trip."

"Thank you. I already can't wait to be back here."

Now that she's said it, she realizes the truth of it. All the packing and planning, the people she'll have to see, the memories she'll have to face – and all without the people she has come to trust the most since the rebellion. It will be exhausting, and she'll want to sleep for days afterwards. But at least she will be home again.

"Is Haymitch coming over today, too?" Katniss asks. She is nearly done with her work, a pile of damp roots and berries drying on a towel by the sink as she goes to work on the last handful of them.

"No, I only came here to wait while he's out."

"He's not getting us any sage," Peeta remarks as he stirs the soup again. "But we'll be fine without it today."

Katniss smiles, and Effie laughs despite herself. She will miss out on a week of these moments. Instead she will face scheduled visits and calculated fashion choices. She still sees as much on television and on the tourists that come to District Twelve every so often. Sometimes she sees herself in them, her old self, and marvels at how she used to be. But most times, she feels worlds apart from them. Even when she has thought of her family, returning for a visit has never seriously crossed her mind.

And now here she is, fleeing the packing she should have almost completed by now because what awaits her seems so alien now.

Peeta leaves the soup to simmer and motions for Effie to join him at the table, but they only make it half way there before the phone rings.

"Haymitch must be back," Effie remarks as Katniss goes to answer it.

Sure enough, Katniss rolls her eyes within moments of putting the receiver to her ear. "Yeah, she's here." Sighing, she tells Effie, "He says that it's safe to go back now because he turned on the furnace."

"Oh, good," Effie says, nodding. "Yes, I'll be right there."

Peeta gives her some soup to take with her, and before long, she has made the walk back home.

The house is toasty now, and the kitchen even more so with the stove on and a pot of water set on it. "So thoughtful," she remarks, heading for the table.

Haymitch merely shrugs.

"Look at what Peeta gave us," she tells him as he plucks an unopened bottle of wine from a cabinet.

He snorts. "Ever wonder what it is about those two that makes them think we can't fend for ourselves?"

"Peeta is just very thoughtful." She sets the container on the table and goes to grab bowls and spoons. "You'll notice Katniss didn't share any berries today."

"Wait a day or two," he says, taking a seat at the table. "We'll be swimming in jam."

"Won't that be nice! Fresh bread, fresh jam—it will be wonderful!"

"Yeah, I can't wait." He rolls his eyes, but he cracks half a smile when she hands him a glass.

By then the water has begun to boil, so she prepares her tea while he pours himself some wine. At the table, she spoons some of the soup into her bowl, and he drinks from his glass in silence, watching.

"So," she begins once she is poised to have her first spoonful, "how did it go?"

"My, can that woman _talk_," he says, shaking his head.

"A mile a minute."

"She makes you look like a statue."

"Now, that's just unnecessary."

Sighing, he has a sip of wine. Across from him, she tries the soup. It's delicious, just what she has come to expect from Peeta.

She is reaching for her tea when he continues, "Interesting person, your mother."

Effie takes a sip from her still steaming mug. "How so?"

"She's perceptive."

"Yes, and persuasive."

"No kidding. At one point during the conversation I wondered if she wasn't planning to convince you to stay in the Capitol for good after a day or two there."

"I wouldn't," Effie says at once. "She isn't _that_ good."

Haymitch shrugs, frowning. "I don't know, Eff. She's got the guilt trip thing down to a science, and she managed to talk you into going on such short notice."

"That's different."

"Well, either way, I don't think you should go by yourself."

She glares at him as he drains his glass, gripping her spoon so tightly it will surely leave temporary dents in her skin. "I'll have her with me on the trip there."

He reaches for the bottle again and begins to pour himself another glass. "Nah, see, that's part of what bothers me."

Pressing her lips together, she sets her spoon down in her bowl. "So what do you propose I do? Tell her I changed my mind? I can't do that. By now she'll have told everyone I'll be there for Herod's anniversary, and it would be horribly rude if I canceled. Not to mention she probably already bought our tickets back, and—"

"If you let me talk, maybe I can answer your question," he says.

"Fair enough." She clasps her hands together on the table and stares him down, willing him to hurry and tell her already.

"What I propose you do is listen to me. Hold on, I'm not finished. You're right in that she's told everybody you're going. I wouldn't stop you anyway, you know that, and now she knows that too. But to me she said something very interesting."

She waits a moment, but he leaves it at that. "Well?"

He shrugs and leans back in his chair. "She said she wouldn't be opposed to my joining you if that would make it easier."

"Easier?" Her mother must have read her discomfort earlier. "Well, I suppose, but—"

"It's up to you. It'd be easier for me, that's for sure, because then I wouldn't have to wonder what she's saying to you while you're miles away."

"You make her sound so sinister," says Effie, shaking her head. "She isn't. She's just very sincere."

Haymitch has a gulp of wine, shrugging. "It's like I said: I'd rather you didn't go alone, but it's your decision in the end."

Biting her lips, she stares down at her hands. Her mother is a very strong presence, to be sure, and Effie has been away from the Capitol for so long that it will be strange to be back, to say the least. Company would be a great comfort.

"Where would we stay? I had planned to stay at my parents' house."

He wrinkles his nose and shrugs. "We could always rent a place."

"Yes, that's true. It seems you've thought this all through on your own." But that is not what makes her smile as she meets his gaze again. "Goodness. You're worried."

"Marginally concerned," he corrects.

"You're worried I won't come back."

"It'd be a shame if you left. Our neighbors would miss you too much."

"Haymitch."

"What?"

She stands, goes to him, and kisses his cheek. "Thank you," she tells him, straightening. "I'll get started on packing our bags as soon as I'm done eating."

"Don't rush," he says as he tugs on the edge of the scarf on her head. He doesn't bother to suppress the lazy smirk on his face. "We have twenty-four hours."

Not so long ago, that would have sent her into a flurry of activity. But how much this year has done for her that she simply shrugs as she takes her seat and says with a smile, "That's plenty of time."

* * *

She is nervous, Effie realizes as they step onto the platform in the Capitol two days later. She is the most on edge she has been this entire trip, because now it's real. They are here not for the Games and not on official business. This is a social visit to her family, and she is terrified of how it may end up.

They could hate him, she thinks as Haymitch gets them a car to take them to the tiny apartment he has reserved for them in advance. They could ask him all sorts of embarrassing questions, and it wouldn't be so rude, either, since it will be just family and not the general public present. They could find his behavior or his attire or his walk or his stance unsatisfactory.

Or they could love him, want to see him more often, and her, too.

She doesn't know which scares her most.

To calm herself, she looks out one of the car windows at the people outside. They are still colorful and outlandish, but not as much so as before. There are even some people who are dressed in what most others likely consider drab outfits, the standard fare in most of the districts. It doesn't make her stomach stop twisting, but at least she is able to breathe evenly.

Haymitch pays up front. She only protests once they are upstairs, as they unpack their bags in the small bedroom.

"You could have let me contribute something."

"My pension pays better than your stipend," he states. "End of story."

She purses her lips, but she says no more of it. It's true, after all. With only seven living victors, maintaining their pensions is simple. Now that she isn't working to supplement her stipend, a small mercy on the part of the central government for those who survived in the Capitol's prisons, she is more careful with her spending.

The afternoon flies by as they organize their clothes, which Effie has picked for each day they will be here.

"It's only a week," she had said in the house in Victors Village, "but one must always be prepared."

And he had agreed, though she suspects it had less to do with her logic and more with allowing her to fuss over something other than what may await them in the Capitol.

It's early in the evening when she stands before the full-length mirror in the bathroom and adjusts her skirt. Satisfied, she nods and walks out into the little living room, where Haymitch lies sprawled on the couch, a glass full of brandy in one hand and a remote control in another.

"I'm heading out to get our gift for Herod," Effie tells him, glancing at the television screen. "I take it the weather will behave for me?"

He shrugs. "I thought your mother said she'd take care of getting him something on our behalf."

"She did say so, yes, but it would feel wrong to simply present ourselves at the party empty-handed. People will notice."

Shaking his head, he sighs. "Sure you don't want me to go with you?"

"Yes. It won't be a very fun outing, I'm afraid." She plucks her jacket from the coat hook by the door and shrugs into it. "You'll probably enjoy yourself more here."

"I'll tell you all about the weather across the country when you get back."

"Don't leave out a single detail."

"Cross my heart."

Wrapping a light scarf about her neck, Effie heads for the door. As her fingers wrap around the doorknob, someone knocks, and she jumps back. Lifting a hand to her heart, she looks through the peephole and frowns.

"Did you tell anyone we were going to be here?" she asks Haymitch.

Sitting up, he shakes his head. "Who is it?"

"It's Plutarch Heavensbee."

At once, Haymitch's frown goes from curious to angry. He stands and heads straight for the door.

"What's wrong?" Effie asks, but she steps out of his way regardless.

He wrenches the door open, and she sees Plutarch Heavensbee's smile falter for just a moment.

"Ah, Haymitch! How good to see you here as well!"

"What do you want?" Haymitch demands.

"I was hoping to say hello to Effie, actually. I thought I saw her earlier—you look stunning as usual, so you were hard to miss—"

"What do you want?" Haymitch repeats.

"Haymitch, there's no need to be so rude," Effie says. "It's lovely to see you, Plutarch, though I must admit, I'm surprised you were able to find us. It's still a very big city."

"It's huge," Haymitch adds, his glare still trained on Heavensbee. "You must have a really good reason for seeking us out if you only _thought_ you saw Effie. You could've called the house phone."

"I did, believe me, but when you weren't there, I knew I wasn't seeing things."

"So what do you want?"

"_Haymitch_," Effie hisses. Turning to Heavensbee, she clears her throat. "What he means is, what compelled you to come find us?"

"Well," Heavensbee begins, but soon his smile slips away, and he sighs. "I'm afraid Haymitch is right to be suspicious of me, Effie. I have come here with an ulterior motive."

Normally, this would do little to upset her. The time she has allotted to spend shopping for a gift to bring to her brother's party has been cut short as it is, and since this merits an explanation, she may have to be out later than she'd like if she hopes to accomplish her goal today. But given Haymitch's reaction and the nerves she has only just begun to calm, Heavensbee's confession throws her.

"And what would that be?" she prompts, ignoring the smirk Haymitch sends in her direction.

Arching his eyebrows at her, Heavensbee smiles. "I need a favor."


End file.
